


Vermillion

by georgescatcafe



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - City, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Coming of Age, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rancher Sapnap, Rich George, Slow Burn, dream will be here just later, guys it's the cowboy x cityboy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgescatcafe/pseuds/georgescatcafe
Summary: When Sapnap gets sent into the city to get quick cash for his family’s struggling ranch, he’s not expecting much from the experience—lights aren't very blinding when held up to the Sun, and he's not exactly there to play around. But then he meets George, a boy built on money, who quickly sweeps in not just paying customers but also Sapnap, leading him into what any ruddy country boy would call the mouth of the Devil: high society. Cue a summer spent by each other’s side while feelings run unbidden, uncaring of deadlines and restraints.It should be enough for the pair—and for awhile, it is, right up until it isn’t.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i'm neither rich nor a rancher nor a butcher. also i wasn't alive in the 90s, but luckily, that's not super important. either way, any and all errors/inaccuracies in this fic are my own. and heads up i call sapnap nick here bc his nickname (lol) plays a role in this :<

**PART I**

**1994**

Going to the city alone isn’t too different from going with his Pa. The drive there is mild, skies blue, sunny, fields on both sides of his muddied pickup stretching out endless and golden, ready to be cut down. Nick is sixteen now, old enough to head to the market on his own, license shiny and new, brain bright and sharp. He’s been preparing for this, and now it’s time for him to show off what he knows.

He had thought the 80s were bad, his dad cursing some figurative Big Man (Nick’s pretty sure he just meant the government) and constantly pushing hard on the ranch to make ends meet. They aren’t farmers, their neighbors having it way harder than they could, but it was rough, and it’s still rough—everything is so expensive, so now Nick is their last hope, Pa working the ranch, son sent off to the city to try and get some immediate cash. It’s hard to deny freshly cut steaks.

They’ve got horses too, pretty ones, some sold to be racers, but mostly pretty ones. Nick’s been planning to propose they start some summer thing, parents bringing their kids to the ranch to ride the horses, get the wind in their hair from something other than a car with its windows down. Not this year, though. (The highway sign tells him his exit is in two miles. Nick focuses back on the road.) This year, he’s busy.

* * *

Pulling into the market’s parking lot, Nick doesn’t feel blinded. Really, opening the truck door finds him with a lungful of stink, and his thoughts are drowned out by the honking of horns and shouting of pedestrians. He thinks he hears a bell tower in the distance—does this city have a college?—but he can’t be sure.

It’s nothing glamorous.

Rounding his truck, he gets the coolers out the back, gets the papers too, lists of cows they’ve got, some horses, sheep, goats. Pa wants to get rid of them, but Ma likes to make sweaters. The sheep can be costly, but sweaters cost others, so Nick guesses it all balances out. They’re not getting rid of any chickens this year, but Nick’s two coolers definitely have some plucked birds. He blinks, remembering the eggs. He’s got some of those to sell too, and they don’t even need to be refrigerated. He’ll get them later.

Finding his shop is easy. The signs pointing out where everything is are all done in a looping, confusing cursive, so Nick forgoes reading them to just follow the sight of flannel and the smell of smoking meat. And there it is. A booth, the sign above it not in cursive (thank God) and declaring the name of their ranch in bold. Once Nick’s got all his things in place, he comes to stand proudly at it. PAPPAS RANCH above, Nick Pappas below.

Things go a lot slower after that. People don’t really flock to him, people don’t even come up to him. If anyone does, it’s at a meandering pace, like the wind might’ve pushed them more than them deciding to look. It’s a little humiliating, but Nick does his best to sell what he can. He’s not really concerned about the meat, and the animals are all still alive and fine on the ranch, but he is concerned about cash, and he knows they need it. Customers are vital. There just… aren’t any.

He leans back on his heels, surveying the marketplace. It’s quaint, kind of cute. Not as rugged and rough as the one in town, more proper-looking. To be expected. He people-watches. The people are people. No one is particularly interesting. Another customer is blown towards him. Nick sells them a couple twelve-ounce filets. He pays a little more attention after that.

Still, that’s the only big purchase he gets, and he tries not to let it sit on his mind too heavily when he heads back to his truck, coolers and folder and cash in hand. The night is warm, and he’s grateful for it when he settles in the bed of his pickup. In hope of saving some money, he’d turned down his parents’ offers of a hotel, the reluctance of giving up cash clear on his dad’s face anyway, so now Nick is left to sleep in his truck bed, surrounded by coolers and tarp and blankets. When he rolls over, he winces. He’d put the cash in a little safe then tucked that little safe under his makeshift bed. It sticks out uncomfortably underneath him. Oh well. He literally made his bed. Now he’s lying in it.

* * *

Morning comes before he’s ready for it, and he finds himself glaring at the Sun as it creeps over the horizon, taunting him with cotton candy skies and sweet birdsong. The night wasn’t much better, with the safe in his back, with the city still awake long after the market closed. Despite his exhaustion from the drive, from standing, sleep did not come easily, and Nick feels the effects of that as he sets up shop all over again, goes to the market’s little bathroom installed down the way to change clothes, to splash water on his face. He groans when he remembers his toothbrush, still in his truck. He goes to get it anyway.

So, his start is a little slow, so what? Nick ties his bandana tighter around his head when he reaches his booth, double-checking his inventory before smiling at the woman who runs the booth across from his. She tips her hat at him in return.

There’s more people coming around today, which is good, and it makes sense. It’s a Thursday, which, while it isn’t the weekend, it’s getting there, and Nick eagerly anticipates it.

He makes a deal for one of their cows, sells some filets, some chicken thighs and veal—it’s a better day. He’s hesitant to call it good.

* * *

Like the day before, Friday comes bright and early, uncomfortably so. He climbs out of his truck, gets his things—the whole rinse, wash, repeat. And then he’s back at his booth, saying hello to the woman across, again she tips her hat, and he’s drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

Nothing.

Nick takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. Things are fine. He’s fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day; Pappas Ranch doesn’t sell their entire inventory in two. It’s fine.

It’s still early, a whole day ahead, and though Nick braces himself for disappointment, he tries not to let it show, still standing tall beneath the sign above his booth. He just needs to be approachable, smile, be the charming boy his Pa raised him to be.

It works when two women walk by, mother and daughter, probably, arms linked, the two of them chatting only to stop at Nick’s booth, the mother smiling politely at him and daughter waving. “We’re having guests over tonight,” the mother says.

“How many?” Nick asks. And the deal goes through.

And it works with an older man, eating only for himself, but wanting to stock up for the weekend. A full guys’ thing. But it’s just him. Nick tells him he gets it, and he’s a few chickens shorter, a rack of lamb ribs gone.

It’s around lunch that things slow down, leaving Nick mildly surprised, but not entirely annoyed, as he uses his own pocket change to get some fruit from a farmer in another section, and an elderly woman three booths down gives him a little bit of smoked pork free of charge. It’s a meager, but good lunch. He’s leaning up against the wall, apple in hand, surveying the business still going on, when he spies someone who looks his age, hair a dark brown, eyes the same, dressed a bit more upscale for a market, even if this market is in the city. Nick pushes himself off the wall when the boy makes his way over to him. It’s a very deliberate walk, and Nick stands straighter for it, not showing off or anything, more like sizing up the competition—the competition for or on what, only Nick’s subconscious knows.

“Pappas Ranch,” the boy reads, and Nick almost laughs at the accent coloring his words. “Are you Papa?”

And the question is so reasonable yet so absurd, spun wonky with the accent, that it makes Nick laugh and reply with a name not quite right either: “Nah, I’m Sapnap.”

It’s such an… outdated name, given to him as a kid by an enthusiastic pen pal and then latched onto by his parents, fading out of fashion the moment he hit double-digits, when he started working his way up the ranch. The name is dumb too, zero sense without context, still stupid even with it, and he feels every bit of its stupidity when the boy studies him, unamused.

“Sapnap?” The word comes slow off his tongue, and Nick resists the urge to flush a bright red.

“Yeah, what about it?” He plants his feet firmer in the ground, wanting to shift from foot to foot but refusing. Refusing to take back the name too.

“Sounds dumb.”

Nick stutters out some excuse that falls flat before straightening. “What’s your name then, hotshot?”

“George,” and oh, isn’t that hilarious? Talk about outdated.

“My name might be stupid, but at least it isn’t lame as hell!”

George, of course, doesn’t like that, and that fact makes Nick grin, eyes growing wild when George grips the edge of the table between them to lean forward. “Fuck off.” Their noses nearly touch.

“This is _my_ booth,” Nick replies.

“My city,” George shoots back, and Nick stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“It’s a city.” Nick raises a brow when George merely huffs, leaning against the booth. He spies the apple in Nick’s hand, and Nick fights back the urge to hide it, possessive. “What?” It’s his lunch. What about it? Workers eat too. Not that someone like George would know that. Nick gives him a cursory once over that George ignores, still focused on the fruit.

“Where’d you get that?” George asks. “It looks fresh.” 

“It is,” Nick points towards the booth he got it from, “over there. Everything here is fresh, dumbass.”

“What time is it?”

“Noon, I reckon.”

George studies him, still leaning against the booth, head coming closer and closer to Nick’s the longer he stares. “Your lunch?” Both of his hands now press down on the table between them, fingers splayed. His nails are short but nice. Nick’s have dirt under them. He holds his apple tighter.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Come with me,” George says, and Nick frowns as George moves away from the booth to nod his head towards the main road. “You can take a break.”

“Not really,” Nick wants to reply (break? Lunch was his break. He’s got to work!), but then George pivots and starts walking away, and he can’t have that, so he follows. “My stuff—”

“Will be safe, chill out,” George tells him. He glances behind and meets Nick’s eyes. Nick wonders if the other will crash into any of the various obstacles around them, booths, pedestrians, goods, fucking rocks in the walkway or something, but he doesn’t, just keeps walking. Part of Nick hopes he crashes. Wants to see him trip, fall, ruin his pants—they’re fancy, clean with those pressed lines down the middle. In the middle of the market, however upscale, they look stupid as hell. To see the knees covered in dust, caked in dirt, it’d make Nick pretty happy. He smiles at the image, and George, though brows end up quirked in confusion, offers a smile back.

Nick stumbles, a direct opposite to his imagination, but it’s because it’s not the city that’s blinding—it’s George’s smile. He blinks, glances behind himself; does George have a particularly white smile? Artificial, does George reap the benefits of being rich? Does the sun glint off those bleached teeth? But the Sun is still high overhead. And George’s teeth were white, but not white enough to be fake. Nick shakes his head, not wanting to get caught up in the thoughts, merely following after the other still. They’re out past the market now, heading deeper into the city. Delicatessens, bakeries, designer shops, and corner stores line the road, and Nick stares into the windows of them all with rapt attention. _Sapnap,_ that’s what he told George his name was, and maybe here he is: Sapnap, someone else, someone new, someone who could walk by George’s side like it’s where he’s been his whole life, like the city is all he knows.

Looking at the elite walking by, Nick knows it wouldn’t be sustainable, not for him, but just for a bit, he can pretend. He glances over at George, who walks on ahead, easy, unassuming if not for the sun in his hair, spinning it into gold, unassuming if not for the set of his shoulders, the quiet confidence with which he carries himself. Carefully, he attempts to imitate the other.

They walk for another few minutes, and Nick is starting to worry about his things, about whether he’ll make it back in time for the after-school rush, the dinner rush, the weekend—when George finally stops and pushes open the door of a restaurant named something Nick can’t pronounce.

“Is that French?” he asks George.

“Yeah,” George replies, “I can’t pronounce it, though.”

“I thought all rich people knew French,” Nick says.

“Next state over,” George tells him. “Or in the east maybe. I’m taking Spanish.”

“My cousin knows Creole.” George hums before smiling at the host and asking for a table for two. The fancy atmosphere, however much a consequence of location and George’s upbringing, the host’s look over George’s shoulder at Nick, _table for two_ —all of it sends Nick’s skeleton rattling, bones shaking and shivering under layers of skin and muscle, his brain easily equating these things to a date. But George isn’t like that. He’s just fancy. And Nick isn’t like that either. This is just what rich people do in the city. What everyone does in the city. They get lunch.

When they’re seated, Nick tugs at his collar. He’s not hot, but God, has he grown uncomfortable. He’s got dirt behind his knees he’s sure, and when he speaks it’s not that smooth, sweet voice George has got, and the slight beard he’s finally started to get only makes him all the scruffier. He’s a fish out of water, and he’s growing more and more certain it shows.

“Sapnap,” George says, “are you alright?”

And oh. Right. He’s not Nick. To George, he’s Sapnap, and George is taking Sapnap to lunch, which means he thinks Sapnap is able to be seen in a place like this, if not alone then with George, so it’s fine. Nick’s hand falls from his shirt to the table, where it curls around napkin-wrapped cutlery. “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m fine. Uh. Can you read this menu?”

“It’s in English, Sapnap.” George’s tone is dry, but it’s a joke, and his eyes squint with his smile. Nick smiles back.

* * *

Despite their smiles, despite sharing a meal, they don’t get along. Nick wants to help provide for lunch, but he also can’t, not really, so they argue over that, and they argued over what to get too, because Nick is a firm believer in trying everything so _let’s just split stuff, George_ , but George is apparently a possessive little bitch, so his idea was continually shot down, but then when a waitress came by, George ordered what Nick had suggested, so they argued over that, and when they left, George argued for a treat and Nick argued that he had to get back to work.

Nick won that one, but George stuck by his side as they traced their steps to the market.

Despite their inability to get along, they become what Nick thinks might just be friends.

“If I lost all my shit ‘cause of you,” Nick starts, but George just rolls his eyes. And when they reach his booth, it’s fine, like George had said it’d be, but Nick does lament the lost customers in the time spent out. He still has an afternoon ahead, but he still took off way more time than he’d have liked.

“It’s fine,” George tells him, hopping up onto the front little ledge of the booth. “I’ll help you sell it, or something.”

“You don’t have anywhere to be?” Nick asks him, checking his inventory one more time, just to make certain nothing’s been stolen.

George shakes his head, kicking his feet slightly, not stopping even when it makes the booth begin to sway. Nick steadies it with a careful hand, and George sends him a grateful look, though he still kicks his feet. “It’s summer.” He watches as Nick pulls out a chunk of meat, chuck, drops it onto the proper counter set up behind the pretty covering the booth makes, and sets about cutting it into pieces. “Nothing to do.”

“For you,” Nick says.

“For me,” George agrees.

Nick fixes up the beef, thinking about the restaurant, the roast he saw somewhere on the menu—that’s what people’ll use this meat for, he’s getting creative—and leans back, fingers curling around the countertop. “So what exactly are you proposing?”

George shrugs. “I can get you good food; I can advertise good food. You can cut what will one day be good food and keep the cash.”

“You’d do this for no pay?” Nick asks.

George tilts his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. Nick watches as sunlight catches his skin; George hadn’t seemed to sweat much, but now Nick sees where it’s damp on his skin, the light making it shimmer. Nick looks away. It didn’t look gross. George finally lowers his head. He doesn’t look gross. “I don’t need it,” George says. “And I’m not stupid. My dad works with some people from the city stockyard. You need the cash, don’t you?”

Nick fights back the urge to make a face. “Yeah. Did you remember that before or after you made me get lunch with you?”

George at least looks a little guilty. Nick takes what he can get. “Look,” George finally says, “I’m not terrible at marketing. And I know what people here want. Can you really say no?”

He can. Nick could say no and tell George to leave. Could say no and thanks, but lunch actually sucked (it didn’t). He could say a number of things that would get rid of George’s company.

He doesn’t.

“Just don’t get in my way, okay?” He and George lock eyes. George nods. Nick tightens his grip on the counter, surveys the steadily crowding market. “So who’re you going to reel in first, hotshot?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic won't have an update schedule, but i have about 80% of it planned, so unless i'm just _that_ uninspired, don't expect month-long waits lol as usual this feels v ooc so sorry about that hopefully i'll figure them out the more this fic develops tho. also if u prefer reading on tumblr im rly sorry but expect slightly slower updates there just bc formatting is.. a lot of work :bunnyeah:
> 
> anyway i'm going to try and have chapter two done sometime next week SO v hesitantly: see u next week :)
> 
> OH also dont be too scared by the homophobia tag pls most instances of it will be like the bit in here, it'll be a thing but not the focus. _if_ it's rly prominent in a chapter, i'll give a warning ahead of time (but i doubt that'll happen)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ywywbunny) & [tumblr](https://georgescatcafe.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

It’s as much an exercise for George as it is for Sapnap. George isn’t actually that good with people; his false bravado stemmed from seeing the lonely boy there with an apple, and some bright bit of light—God’s light, a sign, George would say if he were a romantic—slashed across the boy’s face when George’s eyes land on him, turning his skin golden and illuminating the stars in his midnight hair. The image was enough to put George into motion, sending him over to the boy in the Pappas Ranch booth. Of course, any and all sweetness George had that his mother and her friends cooed and awed about flew from his body the minute he opened his mouth, but now, he sits at that booth and is the one constant company to Sapnap Pappas.

“That can’t be your actual name,” George turns to him when there’s a lull in customers, “Sapnap. Sapnap Pappas?”

Sapnap places the blade of his butcher knife to a particularly thick bit of fat before slicing through. “It’s not,” he says.

“Thought so.” George readjusts, and again, Sapnap reaches out a hand to steady the unstable booth. “So, what’s your actual name?”

“Is Sapnap not good enough for you?” Sapnap sends him a quick glance from under dark brows before going back to his work. George shrugs.

“It’s dumb,” George says. “But I guess it’s fine. But I want to know. Amuse me.”

“That’s because I was named it by my friend,” Sapnap tells him, wrapping up the meat and putting it in a cooler, “when we were, like, five.”

“Friend?” George glances over his shoulder at the market. He’s pretty sure it’s nearing dinnertime. His stomach has started to give the occasional rumble. Sapnap hasn’t noticed, though. That’s fine. George took time away from him at lunch. He can wait a bit longer for dinner.

“Yeah,” Sapnap replies. “I had a pen pal.”

“Had?”

Sapnap nods, then finally meets George’s eyes. “Are you going to contribute anything useful or just keep repeating everything I say?”

“You’re telling me about your past,” George says. “You don’t want to hear about mine.”

At that, he gets a disbelieving look that he chooses to ignore.

“Maybe another time,” George suggests. “Or quid pro quo.”

Sapnap studies him for another second before nodding. “He suggested we switch to email. The Internet at my house is super spotty, so sometimes it’s back to letters, but it’s not terrible, and I’ve got an AOL account. Pa told me it’d be useful for work too, so. No biggie, I guess. So yeah, we email.”

George doesn’t have spotty Internet; he has an AOL account—his mum told him he’d need it. He doesn’t use it often. Most of his friends live nearby anyway. “Cool,” he says.

Sapnap nods then puts away his knives and leans forward, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. George looks back over his shoulder. “Quid pro quo, George,” when George finally turns to him again, he smiles, “so?”

So George tells him about his AOL account. How he doesn’t use it. Then he tells him about his friends. “But some are just connections,” George clarifies, “and some I think hate me. I don’t really care, but it is stressful. I’d rather not deal with them at all, knowing some of the shit they say.” Sapnap gives a sympathetic hum. “But I do it. If not for my future, then for my mum and dad. They’re good. And under stress. We’ve got noble blood, really, but that just puts a price on our heads, I think. So I just… do what makes them happy ‘cause they’ve got enough to think about, you know?”

Sapnap blinks. George takes that as a no. He continues:

“Guess you could consider yourself lucky. Is that what it’s like? Just being friends with people to be their friend?”

“Yeah,” Sapnap says. “Sometimes it’s because we grew up together, and I don’t like them much anymore, but they’re all I know, but… I still care about them. And it’s not… we don’t have prices on our heads. Sorry.”

George wants to laugh, but he bites it back, this time looking over at the woman in the next booth. She sends him a polite wave. George sends her one back. He feels Sapnap’s eyes on him the entire time. “’S fine,” George replies. He sits up, fingers drumming on wood. “So, your _actual_ name, Sapnap Pappas?”

“Nick,” Sapnap says. “Nick Pappas.”

“A lot less stupid than Sapnap.”

“Maybe,” George wonders whether he should call the other his nickname (ha!) or his actual one, “but I don’t know. Going by Sapnap here is kind of fun. Like a secret identity. Or alter ego.”

“Don’t like being a country bumpkin, Mr. Pappas?” George shoots the other a teasing grin.

Sapnap (George has grown used to the name, and apparently, so has the other, no use calling him anything else now) grins back. “Proud of my roots,” he says. “Which isn’t _bumpkin_ , thank you very much. But I do… I like the pretending. Just for a bit. Just for the summer. Takes some of the pressure off, I think.”

“Do you often fall victim to childhood nostalgia?” George raises his brows to show him he’s joking. Sapnap offers a smile.

“Is that what it is?”

“You tell me.” George glances out to the sky, where the Sun has started to set. “Let’s try to get a couple more buyers then head out for dinner.”

“Are you going to study business?” Sapnap asks, nodding when George motions to a father and son pair across the way. “In college?”

“Probably,” George replies, “amongst other things. Here. I’ll be right back.” And then he slips off the counter, leaving Sapnap alone, heading over to the father and his kid. He draws them in easy, a promise of a good bonding experience, grilling some juicy cuts of steak in their backyard, and Sapnap ends up just a little bit richer. After going through the process again, this time taking a goat off of Pappas Ranch’s hands, George watches Sapnap count the money before the other disappears fully behind the booth, locking the cash away in a safe. The emotion in him… George wouldn’t call it guilt, but it’s something that twists his stomach in all the wrong ways, makes him want to hop from foot to foot, not meet the other’s eyes. He could advertise to his parents. To his family. Hell, he could just give Sapnap the cash in his wallet. And it’d be fine. He wouldn’t even ask for anything. “Sell it to other people,” he’d say. “I don’t need it.”

Yet he hasn’t done any of that.

“What’re you thinking about?” George jumps when Sapnap finally walks out from behind the booth. “You look like you need to take a shit.”

“I don’t,” George replies, “I just….” He doesn’t know what to say. Even if he did, he doesn’t think he’d know how to say it. He gives a shrug. “Thinking about dinner, what to get, I guess. I’m hungry.”

“Honestly,” Sapnap says, “me too.” They start to leave, Sapnap continually throwing glances over his shoulder, before he finally continues: “Are you taking me to another French place?”

George shakes his head. “We can go somewhere else. Less fancy if you want.”

Sapnap thinks. George takes them towards the main road. He doesn’t really know all the city, just (he glances over to Sapnap before looking away, to the ground—it’s not guilt, it _isn’t_ ) the richer neighborhoods, but he can read a map, and honestly, he knows all the streets well enough, just not what’s down them all. “I just can’t really afford to spend money,” Sapnap eventually says. “And I’m not going to make you spend a bunch either,” he levels George with a look, “even if you can afford to.”

In a way, George can see that as fair. That doesn’t mean he has to accept it, though. “I can pay, and you won’t—if you think it’ll make you owe me or I’ll think you’re in debt to me or whatever, don’t. Just tell me what you want.”

“Where would you normally go for dinner?”

Home. George would be at home.

“I know a place,” he says instead. And when he goes, Sapnap follows.

* * *

It’s a bit farther away than the French restaurant, closer to George’s house too, but Sapnap doesn’t seem to mind, and George tells him they’ll catch a cab back. “Walking could cause cramps,” George says. “It’s happened to me once or twice. Did you get it? I imagine working on a ranch is… non-stop.”

“It is,” Sapnap replies. “Ate when working sometimes, but Ma always had us eating together at dinner. But I’ve definitely had a sandwich or two on horseback.”

“Bite your tongue ever?” George glances over at him; Sapnap’s watching his feet on the pavement. Eventually, he turns to meet the other’s gaze.

“Once or twice.” They share a smile.

On the corner of Bell and Lamar sits a diner, the neon lights of its sign flickering on in the evening dark. _BENNY_ it reads, letters vertical. Sapnap stares up at them; the magenta reflects in his eyes. “Come here often?” he asks.

“It’s cozier than,” George pulls a face, exaggerating his words, “ _Un petit creux_.”

“I can believe that.” Sapnap pushes open the door. A bell overhead jingles. A sign reads to seat yourself, so they do, scooting into a booth that has a view of Bell Street, the seat cool through George’s pants. He watches Sapnap’s fingers as they drum against the countertop before disappearing below the table. “What do you usually get?” he finally asks.

George doesn’t come here often. “Chicken and waffles,” he replies.

There’re a couple menus slotted between the sugar and napkins, and Sapnap’s hands come back into view to grab one. His eyes roam over the laminated paper, glancing up at George, who sits there quietly, every few seconds.

“Are you going to look?” he asks, motioning to the remaining menu.

George shrugs. “I’m alright.”

Sapnap studies him for a second before his gaze finally drops. George takes this time to continue watching him. He’s got a bandana tied around his head, holding his hair back, but still some of his fringe falls over the fabric, forcing him to push it back every few seconds as he tries to read. George swallows before letting his eyes wander lower across his brow bone, the slope of his nose before the rest of his face disappears behind the menu. And Sapnap’s eyes are covered by long lashes. George looks away.

Across the room, he accidentally makes eye contact with a waitress, who offers him a polite smile and starts to walk over. “Hope you know what you want,” George warns Sapnap, who looks up, confused, right before the waitress reaches their table.

“What can I get you boys?” she asks, voice cheery, drawl strong.

George smiles. “Chicken and waffles please.”

“And a burger for me please,” Sapnap tells her, putting the menu back.

The waitress gives them a nod before pivoting, and then George goes, “Wait, uh, can I please get a chocolate shake too?” When the waitress writes it down, George wants to take it back.

He wants to take it back even more when Sapnap adds, “Me too please.”

George sneaks a peek at him from the corner of his eye. Sapnap’s just got an easy smile on his face, and when he turns to George, all he says is, “You didn’t get a treat earlier. But now I want one too.”

George completely forgot about their argument after lunch. He doesn’t tell Sapnap that, though. “I can pay,” is what he says instead, “since we’re getting the shakes.”

“I thought we agreed to go Dutch.” Sapnap says. “Don’t switch up on me now.”

“I’m not switching up on you,” George retorts. “I’m being polite.”

“You don’t need to be polite,” Sapnap replies. “We’re friends. Friends aren’t polite with each other.”

“Mine are.” George refrains from rolling his eyes. “And is that what we are? Friends?”

“Here, I’ll start the un-politeness,” Sapnap declares. “George, very not politely, what the _fuck_ does that mean?”

“I just didn’t realize you thought we’re friends already,” George replies, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants.

“Do you think we’re not?”

George shakes his head. “We are. I mean, I think we are. Didn’t realize it’s reciprocated.”

“Yeah, well,” Sapnap’s cheeks puff up as he blows out air, “you know.”

He does.

The food is good, obviously, but when the waitress returns with two chocolate shakes, George has to repress a cringe. As he attempts to take a drink, he looks across the table at Sapnap, who’s already eaten his cherry and is, George assumes, trying to tie the stem into a knot with his tongue. George lifts from his straw. “You look stupid.” When Sapnap glares at him, George takes an innocent sip.

“And you can do it, hotshot?”

“No,” George replies honestly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t look stupid.”

“Well,” Sapnap takes another second to roll the stem around before he opens his mouth, tongue lolling out, cherry stem falling onto the plate below—tied in a neat, little knot.

George looks away, heat spreading under his skin.

“People who can do that are good kissers, so I don’t care how stupid I look if it means I kiss well.”

The first emotion George feels is curiosity. The next is humiliation. “Why would I need to know that?” he asks, eyes resolutely on his shake. It’s melted some, and now he drinks it easily. When he pulls back to breathe, he adds: “Why would you tell me that?” His offense is too extreme, and when he looks up, finally meeting Sapnap’s eyes, he knows Sapnap knows it too. “I’m sorry,” he says. He takes another sip. Though he’s no longer looking at the other, he can feel Sapnap’s gaze on him, and he’s uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He can’t take back the words, though, so all he does is drink his shake and try to avoid any and all eye contact. And then something bumps into his foot under the table.

He freezes, hunched halfway over his straw. Another bump to his foot, a gentle nudge. He risks a glance up. Sapnap is staring at him, expression intense. George swallows.

“No,” he says.

“Why not?” Sapnap taps their shoes together again.

“ _No_.” George leans forward, hoping to convey with that one word just how against this he is.

“Just give me one good reason as to why not, George,” Sapnap replies. “Then I’ll stop.”

There’s lots of reasons. “I’m not… into that.” A lack of attraction isn’t one of them.

Sapnap sighs. “Fine, me neither. I just wanted to see what you’d do. Not going to lie, you seemed like the type.”

George scoffs, genuine hurt rising in his chest. He plays it off as disgust. “You’re such an asshole.” Sapnap sends him a disinterested look, merely leaning forward to drink his shake. George frowns as he watches the other, until he mimics the pose, the cold chocolate an easy distraction and quick way to cool down from the heat that has yet to dissipate. God, seriously. What a dick.

* * *

The rest of the night more or less ruined, George keeps his hands in his pockets as they make their way back to the market. Sapnap’s quiet beside him, and whenever George glances over, he’s always looking away or at his feet. George hates the guilt rising in him. It’s not his fault Sapnap chose to be weird. It’s not his fault for reading the signs as they were then having them thrown back in his face.

Sapnap wouldn’t have done any of that if he were actually…. George glances over again; Sapnap’s eyes are locked on the ground. No use thinking about it now.

“We did good today,” he says. “We make a good team.”

When he looks over again, Sapnap is finally looking at him too. And he’s smiling. George smiles back as Sapnap nods. “Yeah,” he says, “we do.”

"I’ll be back tomorrow,” George tells him. “If that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Sapnap replies, smile still on his face. The market is in sight now. “I like spending time with you.”

George hopes he isn’t as red as he thinks he is. The Sun is setting—maybe he can blame any color he has on that. “I,” he laughs, nervous, “like spending time with you too.”

They fall into an unsteady silence; not uncomfortable, just… cautious. George does his best to keep looking ahead. When they reach the market, Sapnap is quick to check over his booth, making sure everything is still where they left it, and then he hefts the cooler up, the muscles in his left arm flexing as he adjusts it over his shoulder, his freehand digging into his pocket for his keys.

George watches before he finally asks, “Do you need me to carry anything?”

Sapnap, who had been inspecting his keys, looks up at him. “Nah, I’m good. You can head to my truck if you want.” There’s not many cars left in the small lot next to the market—when George looks over, a sleek black car pulls out, leaving only three SUVs and two trucks, one rusted and rough, the other white with mud all along the tires. George honestly isn’t sure which is Sapnap’s. “I can drive you home.” He tosses George the keys, and George’s heart spikes as he reaches out to catch them before they fall. “She’s pretty beat up, but she still works.”

So it’s the rusty one. George turns to look at it again, at the chipping sky blue paint, the rust that colors it brown and speckled—a robin’s egg, before turning back to Sapnap and nodding. Sapnap gives him a smile, and then George turns and goes, marching dutifully up to the truck, inspecting it closer, like there’s much to inspect, before he unlocks it and climbs carefully into the passenger seat. He sits there.

There’s not much inside the car.

Eventually, there comes a thud from behind, and when he turns to look over the back of his seat, he sees Sapnap loading his coolers into the bed of the truck, slamming the tailgate shut before taking his safe with him to the front of the truck. When he opens the door, he drops the safe down on the seat between them. George looks between it and Sapnap before he turns back to the truck bed. Inside, he sees the coolers, along with a pillow, blanket, and duffel bad. He readjusts, once again facing forward. Sapnap’s starts the truck.

“Where to?” he asks.

“I’ll give you the directions,” George replies.

* * *

When they reach George’s house, George remains in his seat. Sapnap tells him he’ll see him tomorrow and that he’s actually a big help (and a big pain in the ass—he says it smiling, of course) and that he’s surprised George’s clothes aren’t dirty despite spending all day outside. George asks him if he sleeps in his truck.

“Uh.” Sapnap blinks, and George’s mouth snaps shut, eyes wide and cheeks heating with humiliation.

“I just—because the pillows and there was a blanket and,” he takes a breath, “I shouldn’t have assumed. You probably just don’t like hotel beds or something.”

Sapnap stares at him. George stares at his nose in return.

Finally, Sapnap releases a quiet breath. With the minimal distance between them, George feels it across his skin. Atop his thighs, his fingers curl into his palms. “Yeah,” Sapnap says. “I am. Can’t afford to waste any money.”

George swallows. “Oh.” Right. It’s always money. That twist in his stomach grows tighter. He looks to his house, the dark windows, curtained, blocking views of the inside. The topiaries that stand tall at the sides of the door. Inside, there’s more than one unused room. More than enough space for Sapnap, with his duffel bag and blanket. With his one pillow. And four brick walls, that’s always safer than a truck. George looks down to the safe that still sits between them. He can feel Sapnap’s gaze on him, heavy as always, and when he looks back up, he finds Sapnap has moved even closer. George presses himself to the window but tries his best not to make it obvious. He doesn’t have to. He could just get out of the truck, go to the front door, unlock it and shut it behind him, leave Sapnap to his own devices. Will Sapnap think he sees him as a charity case? He doesn’t. George glances back over at his house. There’s even a spare bedroom across from his own. It’s really not a problem. Sapnap wouldn’t think he sees him as a charity case—they argue too much for him to think that.

But is it really a good idea?

The crank for the window digs uncomfortably into George’s back.

But is Sapnap sleeping in his truck, inside it or in the bed, when he doesn’t have to better?

“Do you want to spend the night?” George asks.

It’s too much. Hell, George is even growing tired of the other’s presence, not necessarily Sapnap himself, but he just needs some time to _think_ , yet here he is trying to get Sapnap to spend even more time with him. Sapnap probably feels the same way. But he has to at least offer. Has to at least try getting Sapnap into a proper bed—not a truck one.

“Like, at your house?” Sapnap looks past George to the imposing structure.

George nods.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit…,” Sapnap makes a face, searching for the word, “I don’t know, weird?”

“Weird?” George repeats.

“Well, like, we just kind of spent all day together, and, like, you’re rich or whatever and my truck looks like—you saw it, and I look like,” he motions to himself, his sweaty t-shirt, the leather belt and worn jeans he wears. On his feet, dirty boots, “y’know.”

He does know. Regardless, he shrugs. “My parents won’t mind.” They might. But George can fend them off… or something. “And it’s not charity,” he adds quickly, eyes widening.

Sapnap sends him a look. “I didn’t think it was, but thanks for the reassurance.”

“I just don’t think you should have to sleep in your truck when there’s plenty of room at my house.” George swallows when Sapnap studies him for another second. He smiles, awkward.

Eventually, Sapnap shrugs. “Fine,” he decides. “But I don’t believe that your parents won’t mind. You’re a terrible liar, George.”

George opens his door. “It doesn’t matter ‘cause I’m not lying.”

Sapnap laughs, turning off the truck and getting out. “Yeah, right.”

George grabs the duffel bag from out the back, and he tries not to squirm when he realizes Sapnap’s watching him. He tugs it onto his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, “I'm actually right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did not update within a week but it's like within two weeks so i think that's pretty pog
> 
> anyway happy belated christmas slash happy holidays! have an update :) i don't really like it at all but that's to be expected w all my writing i think. idk if i've said but i've got the major stuff of this fic all planned and now i'm just kinda working out the finer details, sorry if the quality of this work goes like *insert emoji of those graphs that are like up and down* oh and as per usual this isn't beta read so all errors are mine and mine alone
> 
> i don't know when the next update will be but it'll happen eventually! hopefully y'all enjoyed this one :) c u guys next time !!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ywywbunny) & [tumblr](https://georgescatcafe.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional disclaimer: since i'm including george's parents in this, remember that this is fiction, so any and all family members included are not in any way reflections of who they are in real life. (in fact, i have no idea who george's parents are in real life; this is 100% fictionalized—made up and not real.)

George’s parents aren’t even home. They get inside, George unlocking the door and calling out a tentative greeting only to be met with silence. Nick turns to him.

“Dinner, maybe,” George says. He readjusts Nick’s bag from where it’s started to slide down his arm. “Come on. I can show you to your room.” Nick doesn’t have a room, not yet, he knows, but he follows George anyway when he starts walking out the foyer and past the living room, er, both living rooms. He can’t help but crane his neck when they pass a doorway leading to what looks like an open dining room and adjoining kitchen. He bumps into George then, the other having stopped at the base of a staircase to wait for him.

Nick stutters out an apology.

“It’s fine,” George replies. “I can give you a proper tour in the morning, if you want?”

Nick will have to head out earlier, to set up at the market. “Maybe,” he says.

George smiles.

Nick’s room is apparently the first room on the left.

“The bathroom is right at the end of the hall,” George says, “and my bedroom is basically right across from yours.” He points at another, slimmer door. “Linen closet if you get cold. Or if you want to switch out your pillowcase or something.” And another door. “Another guest room. We don’t have company, but sometimes my parents strike unexpected deals and we end up having someone in there. If they’re at some dinner tonight, that might happen.”

“You’re going to tell them I’m here, right?”

George hasn’t stopped smiling, but it’s dull, eyes dark and shadowed, cheeks strained. “They’ll know; don’t worry.”

“I can stay in my truck,” Nick tells him. “It’s fine.”

“But you don’t have to,” George says. “Seriously, don’t worry about my parents.” He nods to the bathroom. “We’ve got extra toothbrushes if you need them. I’ll be in my room. You won’t have to look at me anymore.”

“I like looking at you,” Nick says and then wishes he didn’t because the smile finally drops from George’s lips only for the shadows in his eyes to expand and cover his entire face. “I didn’t mean that,” he adds.

“Yeah,” George replies, “I know you didn’t.” He turns, heading towards his room. “Anyway, I’ll be in here if you need me.” He tries a smile again. It’s weak, and Nick feels bile rise in his throat. He’s not sure brushing his teeth will make the sensation go away. “Goodnight, Sapnap.”

“Night, George.”

When he spits for the nth time over the sink, the tangy sharp taste remains. Being right is always fun until it isn’t. Nick splashes water over his face, cold and stinging. When he looks up, his eyes are bordering red. He squeezes them shut before pressing his fingers into them. When he pulls his hands away, his eyes are only even more red. Whatever. He takes his toothbrush and heads back to his room.

He can’t help the glance he sends to George’s door as he passes. The lights are off. He bites back the sigh threatening to slip out and keeps walking.

* * *

Despite the bed which is comfortable as _hell_ , sleep doesn’t come easy. Every creak from downstairs puts Nick on edge, and a couple of times he hears creaking right outside his door, and he’s left to wonder just what it is George is doing out there. If it’s even George walking around. The room he’s in is big, with a high ceiling and tall windows, even for a second-storey bedroom, and it leaves him feeling open and exposed, and part of him wonders if it’d have just been better to sleep in his truck, in that market parking lot. Yeah, he was equally exposed there, but he was also in the middle of the city where shouting could wake up pretty much anyone. And he wasn’t the only one asleep under the open sky. Here, George is his friend, but that’s a new term, and Nick doesn’t plan on meeting George’s parents, not really. Here, he’s basically on his own.

Nick rolls over, tugging the sheets higher, tucking them right under his chin. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s like first sleepover jitters. He just needs to get over it.

But there’s voices now, from downstairs, and his ears strain as he tries to listen is. It’s all accented, so it’s hard to pick out if George is among the voices. Definitely his parents, though. Nick groans, finally just giving a rough jerk to the sheets and pulling them fully over his head.

And the damn footsteps, again and again, going past his door. Seriously, what the fuck is George doing? If he didn’t hate the idea of meeting George’s parents, especially when he’s the way he is, he’d go out there and force the other to stop, marching him back to bed and tucking him in himself.

In the least weirdest way possible.

Eventually, the voices die down, and with them, so do the footsteps. Nick lets out a breath. When he looks over to the window, he’s grateful to see it’s still dark out. There’s still a chance for more than a couple of hours… hopefully.

* * *

Morning is not kind to Nick. He wakes to birdsong, sunlight on his face, and that’s well enough, but it’s when he goes downstairs, planning to leave a note for George and his parents, thanking the family for their hospitality, that he sees a note is unnecessary.

“Um,” he says, and then, “good morning, sir.”

George’s father looks nice enough, if you look past the air of frigid coolness X from him while he butters a slice of toast. “Good morning,” the man replies. “Are you Nick?” The name comes out after a hesitation, and it makes Nick want to slam his head into the sparkling granite counter, embarrassment flooding him when he realizes George probably introduced him as Sapnap.

But all he does is smile and nod his head. “Yes, sir,” he replies. “You’re George’s father?” At the affirmative, he continues: “Thank you for letting me stay here. I know it’s probably inconvenient, and I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“It’s alright,” George’s dad offers a polite smile. “George said you’re a Pappas?”

“Yes, sir,” Nick thinks he’ll be using that phrase a lot, “son of Glenn Pappas.”

“I’ve spoken to him once or twice,” the man thinks for a moment, “has your father ever mentioned a Davidson family?”

“I think I’ve heard that name, sir,” Nick replies. “I’m guessing you’re Mr. Davidson?”

“Guessed right,” Mr. Davidson replies. He spies the clock over the stove. “Well, you know us working men, I’m off. Take George with you when you go. I tell him he’s inside too often.”

Nick nods as Mr. Davidson takes a final sip from the mug that’s been sitting on the counter, placing it delicately in the sink before bidding Nick goodbye and disappearing out the doors and out the house. Nick stands alone in the kitchen before heading back upstairs to wake George.

George does not rise after the first knock, nor the second nor third.

Finally, Nick opens the door.

“George,” he says. “Wake up.”

The lump on the bed groans, shifting before settling again.

Nick sighs. “I had to talk to your dad. You have to wake up. George, what the hell.”

The blankets fall away as George sits upright, rigid. “You what?”

“Yeah,” Nick replies, “I went downstairs because I need to go to the market soon, and your dad was down there. He told me to take you with me.”

“Good,” George says at that, finally climbing out of bed, his lounge pants catching on his toes with every step he takes towards what Nick assumes is the closet. “Not good that you met my dad, though. You’re okay?”

“I didn’t want to,” Nick admits, “but he knew Pa, so I guess it went fine?”

“Stockyards, remember?” George sends him a smile oddly bright for someone who didn’t want to wake up a minute ago. “Anyway, get out.”

“What?” Nick takes a step back anyway.

“I’m going to get dressed,” George tells him, disappearing into, yup, the closet. “Get out.”

“Oh my God,” but Nick still exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

George comes out a couple minutes later, tugging a jacket on over his shoulders.

“You’re going to get hot later,” Nick says, but George waves him off.

“I’m cold _now_.” George leads the way downstairs. “Now come on, I’m fucking hungry. What do you want from McDonald’s? There’s one on the way back to the market.”

* * *

Nick watches in both admiration and horror as George orders half the breakfast menu then proceeds to eat that and drink a large orange juice. Normally, it’d be just admiration, but George is so skinny—there’s no way he can just fit all that in there without dying. But he does, and when Nick still hasn’t exited out the parking lot after thirty seconds, George turns to him with a cocked brow.

“Weren’t you the one wanting to leave early?”

So Nick drives.

* * *

The day passes much like the last, but with less awkward pauses and hesitation. Banter comes easy between the two of them, and George brings in customers while Nick leaves them satisfied with their purchase. The day’s inventory depletes quickly, and for that, Nick allows them an early dinner, the two of them packing up the truck and heading out before the sun’s even thought about reaching the horizon.

As they sit nursing sweet tea and picking at their pasta, George gives a sigh. “You can stay the night again,” he says.

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Nick asks.

George shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean,” he blinks, staring into his _paglia e fieno_ before winding the fettuccine around his fork, “I like your company. I just mean—I don’t—I don’t know what I mean.” He takes a bite of his food. “Do you feel like you’re intruding?”

“No,” Nick replies, “I feel paranoid. Dissected, maybe.”

George nods, stabbing again at his pasta. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah.” He sets down his silverware finally, the metal making a small clink against his plate. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Can’t help it,” Nick says. “Oh, uh, what were you doing last night? I heard… were you pacing?”

George picks up his fork, and with the action, the pasta-twirling starts again. Nick refrains from reaching across the table to still his hand. “Yeah, that was—I went downstairs a couple times, and a couple times I was going to see if you,” he laughs, quiet, embarrassed, cheeks an obvious red, “were all settled in and stuff.”

He wasn’t. “I was,” Nick tells him, offering the other a smile. “No checking-up necessary.”

George smiles back.

* * *

It takes a couple more nights at the Davidson’s before Nick meets George’s mother. Equally nice as her husband, equally frigid. “You must be the Pappas boy,” she tells him. “Nick, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, “and you’re Mrs. Davidson?”

She smiles at him, and Nick finds himself smiling back, though he keeps a good few steps between them. “George says he’s been working with you,” she continues, “at the market downtown?” Nick nods, and she nods too. “Good. He needs to get out more.”

“He’s definitely out more now,” Nick says, and she smiles again, tighter at the corners, though. Right. He straightens. “I’ve told your husband but thank you again for letting me stay here. I’m sure it’s inconvenient, but—”

“If Harry said it’s alright, then it’s not a problem,” Mrs. Davidson interrupts him. “And we’re equally grateful you’re getting our son out of the house. Out of his room, honestly.” She shakes her head. “Always did wonderfully at banquets.” Elegant fingers rub at the pearls on her wrist. “He’s very good at speaking when spoken to, that means.” The smile she wears now is soft, gentle as the light from above the stove.

Nick isn’t sure whether or not he’s supposed to laugh. He tugs at his shirt collar. “Well, I’m glad to help. He’s a great business partner.”

Wherever Mrs. Davidson is, it isn’t with Nick. Her murmured _yes_ is as much a dismissal as Nick thinks he’ll get. He bows his head and wishes her a goodnight. He doesn’t hear a reply.

* * *

“Your ma is nice,” Nick tells George when he gets upstairs, finding the other sitting at his desk in his room. “Is it really not a problem? Me being here?”

George leans back in his chair, pushing himself away from the desk. “Yeah,” he finally says. “It’s not. We’ve got the space, anyway. You went three days without meeting my mum.”

“Not as much luck with your dad,” Nick says, and George laughs. When George pulls himself back into his desk, fiddling with the various knickknacks there before scratching his pencil across a notebook page, Nick wonders about what his parents said.

George talked about having friends—talks about having friends, even. He didn’t sound close to them, not really, didn’t even sound like he enjoyed having them, but he had them. Has them. Nick frowns, taking a seat at the foot of George’s bed before falling back onto the soft duvet. George doesn’t glance up from his writing.

“Are you going to see your friends at all?” he finally asks. “I mean, I know you said you don’t want to bother, but still….”

At that, George straightens, setting down his pencil and turning to look at Nick. “Anna and Blair are in Paris; Vince, Theo, and Gordon are back in the UK; Beth and Seraphina are in Switzerland. Everyone else is either away on summer internships or partying at South Beach.”

“And the people you named… are you close to them?” George sends him a look and Nick is quick to revise. “As close as you can be, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” George says before frowning. “Why? Do you want to stay at a hotel or something?”

“Stop acting like it’s the end of the world if I sleep in my truck,” is what Nick tells him first, and then, “and no. I was just curious. Before, you were by yourself, and now it feels like you’re always with me. I know you said you can’t really trust your friends, but you don’t even have plans with them.”

“It’s unconventional, yeah,” George says, turning back to his desk, “but it’s fine. I like what we’re doing at the market, and I like my friends in small doses. You, that exception.”

“Probably because I’m not someone that would leave you behind for South Beach,” Nick replies, and George allows a small laugh at that. Nick grins. “Alright,” he says, “I’m going to go get ready for bed. See you in the morning?”

George nods and lifts a hand in a wave. “See you in the morning.”

Right before shutting the door, Nick pauses. George does too. When they look at each other, Nick opens his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue, before he realizes he doesn’t even know what those words are. He shakes his head, closing the door quietly behind him.

* * *

He’s practically forgotten about the conversation when George brings it up again. “My parents,” he begins, “what’d they tell you?”

Nick freezes. “Nothing,” he replies, slicing a liver, eyes locked on the organ. Can’t afford to mess up and all that.

“Sapnap,” George says. “They told you something.”

“They didn’t!” Nick bites his lip and squints, lining his knife up again. Really, he’s got to get this cut right. He does.

“Nick.”

He puts the knife down. “They just said that you don’t go outside much and that I help with that. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Nothing with my parents is ever not a big deal,” George sneers. “I can’t believe this. So what—I fucking hate my friends, what about it?”

“Nothing about it!” Nick tells him, packaging the sliced liver. “Really, I was just wondering if you really didn’t have any plans. I think this _is_ something that’s not a big deal.”

“No, no,” George sinks to the floor, squatting, palms pressed over his eyes, “it is a big deal.”

Nick frowns, lowering himself to pull George’s hands away from his face. “Everyone likes a little alone time, and you’re, like, living in a pit of snakes. How is it a big deal?”

George glares at him. “Let’s just say it’s not a very good look when you’re inside all day, and when you’re not inside, your usually with girls that you aren’t having an affair with.”

“You’re a teenager; how the hell would you have an affair?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” George replies, flat. “I look fucking weird! To my parents and to all their stupid business partners! Especially here. We literally work with oil companies and ranchers, Sapnap.” He jerks his arms free of Nick’s grasp to cover his face again. “No wonder they stopped putting up a fuss about you—you make me look good! I’m actually working, getting work experience, and to have a friend like you, a real, rugged, gritty guy—oh my God.” He drags his hands down his face to look up at Nick. “That’s so dumb.”

“So I make you look like a man?” Nick asks, and then blinks, shaking his head. “Also, stopped… putting up a fuss? So they didn’t approve at first?”

“Of course they didn’t approve,” George hisses. “I never do stuff like that, what I did with you, they were—not terrified, but you know.” He widens his eyes, lips set in a stern frown. Nick nods, though he’s not sure he knows. George continues anyway, “It’s messy. Families are messy.”

“Yeah, they are,” Nick agrees, though his was always pretty neat. Oh well. “But it’s fine,” he tries a smile, though the frown doesn’t leave George’s face, “I didn’t think anything of it, and your parents are happy with you—I see no downsides.”

“It’s the principle, Sapnap,” George tells him, but finally, he gives a small smile too. “It’s fine.”

“Do you want to maybe get off the floor now?” Nick asks, and George nods.

They rise, and Nick clears his throat. “Uh, I don’t know how good that was for business.”

“Sorry,” George replies, “I don’t usually… do that.”

“I know,” Nick says. When he smiles, George smiles back, zero hesitation.

* * *

The next day, George asks him how long he’s staying. Nick frowns down at his street tacos. “Until all the meat sells,” he says, “and then I’ll go home, get more meat, and stay until that sells out.”

“All summer?” George asks.

“All summer,” Nick replies.

George stares at a point past Nick’s shoulder. “Huh,” he says. “Well, you’ve been here a week. Are you going home soon?”

“Give it another week.”

George nods. “How many trips are you thinking?”

Nick shrugs.

“Do you think I could go with you on one?”

Again, Nick shrugs.

George narrows his eyes before huffing. “I want to see the ranch.”

“It’s got the animals you sell and grass,” Nick says. “What are you hoping for?”

“Consider it my South Beach,” George replies.

“Go to Galveston, then,” Nick retorts.

“Take me to Galveston, then.” When Nick looks across the table at him, George is serious.

Nick sighs. “Do you mean it?”

George doesn’t reply.

Another sigh. “Maybe. Can’t you drive?”

“My mom doesn’t want me to risk it,” George tells him, and the statement is so ridiculous it makes Nick choke on his next bite of taco. “What?” George asks, brows furrowing. “It’s true!”

Nick swallows as best he can before taking a drink of water. “I know,” he replies. “That’s what makes it so terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated new year! hope everyone had a good start to 2021, and let's all work to make this year better than the last. :]
> 
> also, this update was supposed to be up, like, multiple hours ago, but then i ate some dessert, and then i went to crosspost on tumblr and ended up redoing my entire tumblr. because i'm just so crazy like that. an absolute mad lad. anyway, hopefully this was okay? not too ooc? i feel like i've lost their voices a bit, but i'll do some drabbles maybe and try and get them back. thank you for reading guys, and see you next update. (*cardi b voice* or not, hehehehe /j)
> 
> OH, also sorry this was so dialogue-heavy. i usually try to avoid that or at least find a balance between dialogue and description (plus exposition, sometimes), but george and sapnap just wouldn't shut up. i'll try and do better next update, i promise!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ywywbunny) & [tumblr](https://georgescatcafe.tumblr.com)


End file.
